The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice

Chapter Five

She couldn’t believe she’d let it happen. Cady pulled her truck to a stop in the employee side of the parking lot the next morning and stared at the box of ramps next to her. Bad enough that he’d manipulated her into grubbing around some forest glen looking for his wild leeks, but he’dgotten to her. One minute she’d been ready to put him in his place, which was as far from her as she could manage. The next, she was gaping at him as if she was hypnotized, as if she didn’t have a brain in her head.

He’d charmed her. Her, the one who prided herself on keeping it together, on being immune to good-looking guys. The one who was never again going to make herself vulnerable to some guy who thought the world should be at his feet.

And the worst part was that he hadn’t even had to try. All he’d had to do was to make nice to her in that voice that sent those little bubbles fizzing through her veins, look at her with those eyes and touch her.

And touch her.

Involuntarily, Cady shivered. It didn’t mean anything. It had been so long since anybody had touched her outside of family, that was all. That was why it had affected her. It wasn’t him, certainly not him.

Definitely not.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t be smart to keep her distance. While she sincerely doubted that Damon Hurst had any real interest in her, she had no plans to give him any opportunities. She checked her watch and got out of the truck with the box of greens. Best to drop off the ramps and get to work.

Her steps faltered a bit when she discovered the back door to the kitchen unlocked and the lights on. For an instant, she debated just leaving the box outside the back door. She hadn’t spent a backbreaking hour picking them only to see someone walk all over them by accident, though. Besides, she was many things but she wasn’t a wimp. She’d go inside just as she’d planned.

It was probably only Roman there, anyway. It wasn’t like Mr. Celebrity Chef was going to be up at the crack of dawn doing prep. And even if it were him, it wasn’t a problem, she told herself quickly. She’d been caught off guard at the market, that was all. This time, she was prepared for any games he might play. Everything would be fine.

And if she held her breath when she walked through the passageway into the kitchen and put the box on one of the stainless steel counters, it was nobody’s business but her own. She’d fulfilled her obligation. All she had to do was—

“Stop.” Damon’s voice sounded in her ear. Adrenaline flooded through her. Every muscle in her body tensed. She moved to turn.

“No. Close your eyes,” he ordered.

Cady bristled. “Who do you think—”

“Just do it.”

And she found herself obeying, as much out of surprise as anything. Her heart thudded in her chest. He was right in front of her; she could feel him, sense the heat from his body.

Feel his breath feathering across her face.

“Open your mouth.”

Pulse jittery, she did.

“Tell me what you think of this,” he murmured. His fingers were hard and warm against her lips and cheek. The contact sent shock rippling through her, all of her nerve endings coming to the alert. Then she stilled because he slipped a tidbit of something that smelled incredible into her mouth.

And tasted even better.

She bit down and exquisite flavor burst through her mouth. Crisp, soft, rich, savory, it was a glorious blend of taste and texture that bombarded all of her senses, occupied every taste bud. She wanted to savor, she wanted to swallow. She wanted more. She couldn’t prevent a humming moan of pleasure.

“I take it that means you approve?”

The words dragged her back to the moment. Her eyes flew open to see Damon standing there, staring at her, intent. Something skittered around in her stomach. He watched her unwaveringly, but he didn’t watch her with the gaze of a chef interested in his creations.

He watched her with the eyes of a man who’d just pleasured a woman, not with taste but with touch.

The breath backed up in her lungs. He was close, way too close in his checked trousers and whites, the apron tied around his lean hips. She swore she felt the air heat around them.

It was just the line of stoves across the room, that was all, Cady told herself unsteadily. The place was always hot. That was why he had his sleeves rolled up. Her bad luck that years of demanding kitchen work had left him with the kind of powerful, sinewy forearms that made her more aware than ever of the strength and purpose driving that rangy body.

“Was it good?” he asked. “Good?” she echoed blankly.

“The food. Did you like it?”

“Oh.” By sheer force of will she dragged herself out of the sensory overload and stepped away for her own sanity. “Good, yeah, good doesn’t begin to cover it. What was that?"

“Judging by the way you looked just now, something that belongs on the menu. It’s an appetizer,” he elaborated. “Acroustillant. Squab, fois gras, morel emulsion in brek dough."

“You’re talking to someone who eats pizza and macaroni and cheese. Translate."

“Ah. Pigeon, duck liver and mushroom sauce in pastry.”

Her brow creased. “I think I liked it better when I didn’t know."

“Sorry, I’m fresh out of cheese Danish.”

“Too bad. I’m not much for fancy food.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned against the counter. “For not being much for fancy food, you seemed pretty into it. Maybe you should spend less time worrying about what you don’t want to like and just go ahead and like it."

She had the uncomfortable feeling he was talking about more than food. She raised her chin. “Thanks for the sage advice, Yoda. I’ll keep it in mind. Here are your ramps, by the way. At least Gus thinks they’re ramps. If not, you’ve got a bunch of matching weeds."

“They look right to me,” Damon said, picking one up to inspect it.

“Great. I hope they rock your world. I’m out of here.” She headed for the door before she could start staring at his forearms again.

“Wait.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Just hang on a minute, will you?” He followed her.

“I already got up at the crack of dawn for you. What do you want now?” she asked, a tiny thread of desperation in her voice. She turned with her hand on the latch, heart hammering, to find him behind her.

“I wanted to say thanks,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to do this. It wasn’t your job and you still took the time."

She shifted uncomfortably. “I did it for Pete and his wife.”

“I like that all the more.” He took another step closer.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I should get to work.” She moistened her lips. “You should get back to work."

He looked down at her as though she was the next course on the menu. “We should do a lot of things."

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“You don’t know, you might like it.”

Something stirred again in her stomach. It was a risk she couldn’t take. “It doesn’t matter,” she reminded herself as much as him. “I know what I don’t like to like and I stick with it."

And with a turn and a step, she was out the back door.

It was a good thing, Damon told himself as he stood staring through the screen at Cady’s retreating back. He had no business kissing her, however much he’d had the urge.

And he’d been having the urge a lot in the past few days.

It made no sense. She certainly wasn’t like the women he usually went after. He already knew what she thought of him. Anyway, he didn’t need to be distracted just then by a woman, especially a permanently cranky woman who’d made it her mission to irritate him. However much it might fascinate him to see her hard shell dissolve, to watch her gaze blur and her mouth soften, she wasn’t for him.

But still he stood watching as she walked away.

Maybe if he hadn’t seen that look on her face, the complete and utter absorption in pleasure when she’d tasted thecroustillant. He’d expected her to like it. He’d never in a million years expected the reaction he’d gotten. He’d watched her face and all he could think was that this was how she’d look at climax. And he’d felt himself tighten as though he’d just brought her there.

And he was doing himself absolutely no good by thinking about it. He was working for her parents, Damon reminded himself, walking back into the kitchen. He was supposed to be changing his life, not just taking his act from Manhattan to Maine. Cady was right; they had no business doing anything about whatever it was that was suddenly simmering between them.

But as a chef he knew that the longer you left something on simmer, the stronger it became.

There was a brisk ticking noise from the kitchen. Roman, he saw, on the clock and jumping straight into work.

“You’re in early,” Damon said as the sous chef began to deftly and precisely cube the carrots that they’d use to make the stock for the lobster bisque.

Roman shrugged. “It’s gotten to be a habit.”

“It’s a good way to get ahead.” Damon reached for his knives. “How long have you been cooking, Roman?"

“Going on three years. Took a job cooking the summer after I got out of college. It stuck."

“College, huh? What was your degree in?”

“Business. Kitchen’s for me, though.” He flashed a smile. “My mom about had a stroke. All that tuition money down the drain."

“Not necessarily.” Damon started cleaning beef tenderloins, the sound of his knife against the cutting board providing a brisk counterpoint to the steady tick of Roman’s. “The business degree could come in handy if you ever decide to open your own place."

“No ifs about it, Chef. My wife’s from Rochester. We’re going to go back there in a few years and start a little place of our own. In the meantime, I’ll save money, get better in the kitchen. I figure I can learn something from you. I hear you’re supposed to be a pretty good cook.” He glanced up, humor in his eyes.

Damon looked at the pile of perfect carrot cubes. “You look like a pretty good cook yourself. Now you’ve just got to work on coming up with your own food."

“I try things at home, sometimes.”

“Not here?” Damon methodically sectioned the tenderloins into tournedos.

“Nathan liked to keep pretty tight control of his menu. Since he’s been gone, I’ve pretty much just been keeping up. Not a lot of time for specials."

“Now there is. It’s a good time of year for squash blossoms. Any growers sell them around here?"

Roman snorted. “Not until July. This is Maine.”

“So I’m told,” Damon murmured.

“You want to get them now, you’ll have to have them shipped in."

Damon shook his head. “They’re too delicate. Besides, you can always taste when something’s been shipped."

“Skip the squash blossoms and try fiddleheads,” Roman suggested. “That’s one thing you can get local. They usually have them at the market."

“I must have missed them.” Too busy getting distracted by Cady McBain, he thought, annoyed at himself. “I’ll look again on Saturday. In the meantime, we’ve got ourselves some ramps. Any ideas?"

Roman considered. “Twist a few of those babies around shrimp and give ‘em a nice sauté. Forget about the restaurant. You and me, we could have ourselves a nice dinner.” He switched to celery, his knife a blur.

“Ramp-wrapped shrimp. You ever made it?”

“A couple of years ago when I was working down in Jersey. I put it with a cilantro-lemon sauce but it was too light to stand up to the ramps. I’d probably do it again with something stronger, maybe roasted chilis or smoked paprika.”

“Try it,” Damon suggested.

The knife stopped. “What, now?”

“Sure. One of the farmers from the market is coming to dinner this Saturday with his wife. They’ve got an anniversary to celebrate. Chef’s tasting. His wife likes shrimp and garlic, by the way."

It was both opportunity and test. He watched Roman prep, first the shrimp, then the ramps. The young sous chef ran into trouble when he started to wind the green stalks around the shrimp, though.

“You need to soften them a little.” Damon spoke up. “Sauté the ramps separately and then twist them around the shrimp. Or blanch them."

“A sauté would give more flavor.”

“My thought, exactly.”

This time, Roman worked two sauté pans, one with ramps, one with the shrimp, dusting them with spices and seasoning. He picked the hot ramps out of the pan, wrapping them around the even hotter shrimp. Tough hands, Damon thought, always a good attribute in a chef.

And an ability to multitask. Even as the wrapped shrimp were in the pan for their final sizzle, Roman pulled out a plate and prepped it with a bed of salad. He set the finished shrimp on the lettuce, drizzling them with chili sauce.

“Looks good but let me show you something.” Damon picked up the shrimp pan and pulled out a second plate, this one flat and square. He didn’t bother with the salad, just drizzled a small circle of the transparent red chili pan sauce in the center of the plate and then positioned three shrimp on it with their tails together and pointing in the air like inverted commas. Using a spoon, he carefully dripped small dots of bright green cilantro oil around the plate, the colors vivid against the white porcelain.

“Keep it simple,” he said as he worked. “Go for height, contrast. The sauce goes on the plate, not the food. You get more visual impact that way."

“Yes, Chef.” Roman admired the shrimp. “That plate looks like something else."

“Looks are good, taste is better.” Damon reached out for a shrimp and swabbed it through the colored dots. He took one bite, considered. Squeezed on some lemon and took another. And another. “It’s good,” he said to Roman. “Add some lemon juice to the chili sauce, brighten it up. Plate it the way I showed you, finish it with some micro cilantro."

“We don’t have any.”

“How about the green market?”

“Not that I know of. You’ll have to get it—”

“If you say shipped in, you’re fired.”

“Yes, Chef,” Roman said.

“All right, forget about the microgreens. I’ll figure something out."

He turned back to his tenderloin tournedos, sealing them in plastic storage trays, then pulled Roman’s cutting board toward him. The sous chef stared, knife in hand.

“Well, get to work,” Damon told him. “I’ll finish this. You’ve got another hour to refine the sauce and write it all down and come up with a name."

“A name?”

“Sure. It’s got to have a name if it’s going to be our appetizer special."

Roman grinned. “Yes, Chef.”

Cady always felt calmer in her greenhouse. It wasn’t big as hothouses went, maybe twice the size of her living room, but it was her territory. There was a serenity in the ranks of greenery and the warm, humid air. Out here, shut away from the rest of the inn, she could put her hands in the earth and forget all about difficult guests, pesky clients, unreliable suppliers and other annoyances. Like Damon Hurst.

She shook her head. She wasn’t going there. She was not going to think about that moment in the kitchen when he’d leaned in close, when she’d seen in his eyes that he was going to kiss her. She wasn’t going to wonder what it would have been like. She wasn’t going to wonder how it would have felt. Nope, not going there.

You don’t know, you might like it.

That was precisely the problem. She might, and that would spell disaster. A guy like Damon Hurst wasn’t interested in someone like her. She’d seen him on the magazine covers wrapped cozily together with this model, that actress, and one thing Cady could say for sure was that she was not his type. Maybe he was bored, maybe she was a challenge, maybe seduction was a knee-jerk reaction for him. Whatever it was, she’d been down this road before. She wasn’t about to be played.

The problem was, when he got to looking at her and talking to her, she forgot all about that. All she could do was watch his mouth and wonder.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she muttered and began transplanting petunia seedlings into the hanging basket that sat on the workbench before her. This was what she needed to be focusing on. She needed to be thinking about how she was going to design the perennial beds she’d spent the morning clearing out over at the Chasan place. She didn’t need to be thinking about Damon Hurst.

Feet crunched on the gravel walk outside and, as though she’d conjured him by thinking, Damon opened the door across the room from her.

And serenity flew out the window.

“I thought I might find you out here,” he said, stepping inside. “Hiding out?"

“Working,” she said. “Lot of that going around.”

Calm had disappeared. Sanctuary was no more. She was uneasy, more than a little tongue-tied and, dammit, had butterflies. It didn’t matter that she was on the other side of the room from him. Suddenly, the greenhouse seemed very small.

Damon strolled around, still in his checks and chef’s whites. He should have looked ludicrously out of place and awkward. Instead, he seemed right at home. She was the one who was tense.

He turned to her. “Nice place.”

Cady tried to see it through his eyes: the four long wooden tables covered with flats of pansies and snapdragons or trays of potted marigolds, the hanging baskets of geraniums and petunias, still waiting for their first blossoms. On the far side stood her workbench and the tables with pots of evening primrose, forsythia, bleeding heart. The air smelled rich and green and fertile.

“What’s all this stuff?” he asked, fingering the velvety green leaf of a petunia.

“The flats are annuals—pansies, marigolds, snapdragons. The plant you’re about to take a leaf off of is a petunia,” she added. “It’s cheaper to grow them than to buy them."

He nodded and began to wander again. Having him in her territory felt strangely intimate. The walls were opaque, the door closed, the only sound the occasional drip of water. For the first time, they were truly alone. There were no distractions, just the two of them amid the green.

“These go in the ground now?” he asked, watching her as she went back to transplanting the petunias.

“I’m starting to set some of them out in the yards I’m working on. I probably shouldn’t before Mother’s Day—you never know if you’re going to get a frost up here—but I’m taking my chances."

“Cady McBain, extreme gardener.”

“I like to live life on the edge.”

“Really?” He studied her. “That’s good to know.”

Her skin warmed. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Do I look like I need one?”

No, he looked like the kind of guy who just went after what he wanted, she thought uneasily. She just couldn’t figure out why it happened to be her.

“If you plant all this, you’ll have a lot of space afterward. You could probably find a corner for a commissioned job, couldn’t you?"

And there was the answer. Her eyes narrowed. “If this is about growing ramps for you, no. My hands still smell."

“Not ramps, microgreens.”

“If they grow in the forest, I’m not interested.”

“They don’t grow in the forest.”

“I’m still not interested.”

He tapped his knuckles on one of the wooden tables. “They don’t take much room,” he offered. “Just a little dirt and water and a week or two of growing time."

“Two weeks? You know what you’re going to get from two weeks of growth? Grass. Micrograss."

“Strongly flavored micrograss. They taste phenomenal, trust me. Makes all the difference in a dish."

“Then I suggest you tap into your underground chef network and find out where you can get some. In case you haven’t noticed, this greenhouse is full, and when I’ve planted the annuals I’ll be filling it up with perennials."

“The microgreens don’t take a lot of space. And I need them,” he said simply. “The restaurant needs them."

The thing she couldn’t say no to. “What, nobody in the entire country sells them?"

“The closest supplier I could find is a guy out in the Midwest.”

“And let me guess, you want local.”

“Bingo,” he said. “A lot of other chefs do, too. You know, this wouldn’t just help the Sextant,” he added thoughtfully as he wandered away from her along one of the rows. “It could work for you, too. You could probably supply microgreens to half the restaurants in Portland, in New Hampshire, shoot, maybe even Boston. You could turn a tidy little profit. Help you pay for this nice greenhouse.” Damon glanced over at her as he rounded the end of the bench.

“What makes you think I need help?”

He tapped a hanging basket with his fingertips as he walked, setting it swinging. “I know it’s new, and judging by the look of your truck, you’re not exactly rolling in dough.” He pushed another basket so it swayed. “And for a person who’s running a business, you sure seem to spend a lot more time around here than you do on job sites."